One of our history teachers was leaving early for a Twins game, so I took his third block Current Events class for him. They came up to my room to play their end of the week trivia game. For the final ten minutes of class I had an elimination round. If you got the question right, you could leave. If you got it wrong, you had to wait until we came around to you again. We were down to five guys (and the lone girl in the class, who was reading the questions). This one unbelievably stumped every boy in the class (several were hockey players, so if it doesn't pertain to Budweiser, what hope do they really have?), "What talk show host says her lawyers overreacted when they went after Patrick Crowe of Kansas City? She said, 'it could have been handled with a phone call.' Crowe was promoting her for president." The guys had no clue. I mean I don't watch much TV nor do I really care for politics, but even I know of only one female talk show host anyone would push for president. So we tried to help out the poor dolts.
"She's African American." No clues.
"She's one of the most popular people in the country." No ideas.
"She has THE talk show, named after her!" Zilch.
"She is known mainly by her first name." Nothing. (At least they didn't guess Cher or Madonna).
Finally, we both screamed "Oprah Winfrey!"
I didn't think it'd be that much of a stumper!
Friday, September 29, 2006
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Audience(s)
There are several teachers here and a few others who read this blog. So as I write, I have some of them in mind. How would this blog be different if I knew students would be reading it? This makes me wonder about the power of audience.
I always knew inherently audience was vital to writing. However, it wasn’t until graduate school when I read an essay called “Closing My Eyes As I Speak” by Peter Elbow that the impact audience can have on student writing became clear. In that essay Elbow makes an argument for having students ignore audience all together. I guess the first few entries here were with no audience in mind. But now I can’t help but feel like several of my peers and colleagues and loved ones are peering over my shoulder as I read. How has audience impacted my writing?
In high school I wrote just to please myself. So therefore my spelling and punctuation were horrible, as were most of my papers. But then during my freshman year I had the greatest high school teacher in the world, Mrs. Christianson (there is an entry about her and the impact she had on my life somewhere on this blog). She became the perfect audience for me - she marked me down for spelling and punctuation errors; however, she loved my voice and passion. This was all I needed. As I look back at those essays (thankfully Mom had saved them all), I cringe at some of the basic errors that I made (usage errors and run-ons galore). But her encouragement and response to my writing did more for me than any number of grammar exercises ever could have. Even though she left after only one year, Mrs. Christianson would remain sitting on my shoulder and offer support on everything I wrote the rest of high school.
When I went off to junior college, it took me awhile to find my audience. My first few papers were horrible, mainly because I came from a high school English program that was one of the worst in the state (Mrs. Christianson was a godsend, but she was there for only one year - but what a year it was). Then I was fortunate enough to find Dr. Drake, a professor who basically chewed me out for being lazy and slacking off. Then she lit a fire under my ass. As I roasted I realized it just wasn’t a couple of flames. It was a damned bonfire. And she was throwing a party. For during that year, I found a lot of other students who she motivated in a similar fashion.
My writing took off with Dr. Drake's encouragement. It reached its peak when she asked to use a story I had written in one of her creative writing classes during my freshman year in one of her sophomore English classes. It’s still one of the high lights of my college career. Luckily, she showed it around to some other faculty members and part way through my sophomore year I found myself in a writing group with this professor and several other faculty members.
After receiving my AA, I transferred to Bemidji State University. There I teetered on the edge of becoming a history major, but in the spring of that year I found two professors, Dr. Bonner and Dr. Christensen, respectively, who would take up residency in my ideal audience. I had Dr. Bonner for World Lit, Expository Writing, and Literary Criticism. I had Dr. Christensen for two Methods classes.
I credit Dr. Bonner with showing me how to really write. But this time it was a lot more difficult that when Mrs. Christianson taught me. I got my essays back from Dr. Bonner with Bs scrawled at the top. I was frustrated. In high school I excelled in writing. I did even more so at the junior college level. But here I couldn’t break the A level to save my soul.
Finally, I sat down and actually read her comments, rather than sulking about the grade. Sure enough, she was right. It was only when I actually went back and began revising my papers with her comments in mind that I began to cut out wordiness, flowery language, and began to focus on images. By the middle of my Expository Writing class, I knew I had made significant progress when Dr. Bonner read the opening paragraph of my newest essay to the class. In fact that essay was voted by the class as the top essay in a ‘writing awards’ contest she had us all enter. Sure it was nice to have that honor, but it was even better knowing how far my writing had come.
When I enrolled in my Methods class, I wasn’t sure what to think. Unlike my Expository Writing class, we had total (and I mean total) freedom over what to write about. We also had total freedom over form too. Looking back on this, I think it was essential that I had these classes in such an order. While Dr. Bonner taught me the rules and form, Dr. Christensen taught me not only how to break them, but, more importantly, he also taught me how to enjoy breaking them.
Dr. Christensen also physically became the audience for my writing. He was the first professor who had students actually present their papers to the class. This scared the hell out of me. Despite reading my first few essays at light speed, I remember looking up and seeing him beaming at me, obviously proud of what I had written. Soon he had me addicted to sharing my work with my classmates.
Unfortunately, I had to graduate and get a job. Oddly enough teaching high school English damned near killed my writing. For whatever reason - panic, stupidity, sheer survival - I forgot all the things they taught me. Instead of encouraging voice and experimentation with style, I became a grammar and form nazi. I think this was because I could control and measure student writing this way, which gave me, as a new teacher, some measure of control (and control was something I desperately needed those first few years). I could correct their papers for spelling errors and sentence fragments. I could show them how they needed to place a thesis at the end of their first paragraph. I modeled each essay for my students. I began to write in the voiceless and unoriginal five paragraph thesis support form (and unfortunately my file cabinet here is full of a lot of five paragraph themes written by me for my students. What the hell was I thinking? Now I imagine those teachers who comprise my audience booing at me and throwing rotten fruit at such writing).
Finally, Dr. Christensen came to my rescue again when I took a year off for graduate school. I was fortunate enough to team teach two Methods classes with him. There I rediscovered my voice and style. I jettisoned that five paragraph thesis support crap forever. It was also at graduate schoo,l with Dr. Christensen as my audience, that my writing took off again. Thanks to those nine months of graduate school, I began really writing again. In that school year, I cranked out more writing than I had in all the years prior (thankfully that writing has pushed all those horrible five paragraph themes of mine to the very back of my filing cabinet).
Now a new member has been added, my fiancé. She is an English major who has an eye for detail and imagery that I can only marvel at. Though my defense committee for my thesis were quite glowing in their praise, the highest praise came from Kristie when she read my final draft. She would balk at this, but it’s true. And what was that praise? She giggled. I knew when I heard her chuckle - I was upstairs - that it was worthy. In fact, I had consdered cutting out the scene that she found so amusing. And had she not reacted as she did, I would have cut it out. Good thing I didn’t. My committe said that was one of the most effective scenes in my thesis.
Now in my classes instead of being the grammar nazi, I borrow from the key members of my audience. I try to use Mrs. Christianson’s encouragement, Dr. Drake’s refusal to accept work that is devoid of thought and voice, Dr. Bonner’s eye for wordiness and grammar, Dr. Christensen’s push toward experimentation and presentation, and Kristie’s eye for the humor and blithe that makes the best writing personal and meaningful.
I always knew inherently audience was vital to writing. However, it wasn’t until graduate school when I read an essay called “Closing My Eyes As I Speak” by Peter Elbow that the impact audience can have on student writing became clear. In that essay Elbow makes an argument for having students ignore audience all together. I guess the first few entries here were with no audience in mind. But now I can’t help but feel like several of my peers and colleagues and loved ones are peering over my shoulder as I read. How has audience impacted my writing?
In high school I wrote just to please myself. So therefore my spelling and punctuation were horrible, as were most of my papers. But then during my freshman year I had the greatest high school teacher in the world, Mrs. Christianson (there is an entry about her and the impact she had on my life somewhere on this blog). She became the perfect audience for me - she marked me down for spelling and punctuation errors; however, she loved my voice and passion. This was all I needed. As I look back at those essays (thankfully Mom had saved them all), I cringe at some of the basic errors that I made (usage errors and run-ons galore). But her encouragement and response to my writing did more for me than any number of grammar exercises ever could have. Even though she left after only one year, Mrs. Christianson would remain sitting on my shoulder and offer support on everything I wrote the rest of high school.
When I went off to junior college, it took me awhile to find my audience. My first few papers were horrible, mainly because I came from a high school English program that was one of the worst in the state (Mrs. Christianson was a godsend, but she was there for only one year - but what a year it was). Then I was fortunate enough to find Dr. Drake, a professor who basically chewed me out for being lazy and slacking off. Then she lit a fire under my ass. As I roasted I realized it just wasn’t a couple of flames. It was a damned bonfire. And she was throwing a party. For during that year, I found a lot of other students who she motivated in a similar fashion.
My writing took off with Dr. Drake's encouragement. It reached its peak when she asked to use a story I had written in one of her creative writing classes during my freshman year in one of her sophomore English classes. It’s still one of the high lights of my college career. Luckily, she showed it around to some other faculty members and part way through my sophomore year I found myself in a writing group with this professor and several other faculty members.
After receiving my AA, I transferred to Bemidji State University. There I teetered on the edge of becoming a history major, but in the spring of that year I found two professors, Dr. Bonner and Dr. Christensen, respectively, who would take up residency in my ideal audience. I had Dr. Bonner for World Lit, Expository Writing, and Literary Criticism. I had Dr. Christensen for two Methods classes.
I credit Dr. Bonner with showing me how to really write. But this time it was a lot more difficult that when Mrs. Christianson taught me. I got my essays back from Dr. Bonner with Bs scrawled at the top. I was frustrated. In high school I excelled in writing. I did even more so at the junior college level. But here I couldn’t break the A level to save my soul.
Finally, I sat down and actually read her comments, rather than sulking about the grade. Sure enough, she was right. It was only when I actually went back and began revising my papers with her comments in mind that I began to cut out wordiness, flowery language, and began to focus on images. By the middle of my Expository Writing class, I knew I had made significant progress when Dr. Bonner read the opening paragraph of my newest essay to the class. In fact that essay was voted by the class as the top essay in a ‘writing awards’ contest she had us all enter. Sure it was nice to have that honor, but it was even better knowing how far my writing had come.
When I enrolled in my Methods class, I wasn’t sure what to think. Unlike my Expository Writing class, we had total (and I mean total) freedom over what to write about. We also had total freedom over form too. Looking back on this, I think it was essential that I had these classes in such an order. While Dr. Bonner taught me the rules and form, Dr. Christensen taught me not only how to break them, but, more importantly, he also taught me how to enjoy breaking them.
Dr. Christensen also physically became the audience for my writing. He was the first professor who had students actually present their papers to the class. This scared the hell out of me. Despite reading my first few essays at light speed, I remember looking up and seeing him beaming at me, obviously proud of what I had written. Soon he had me addicted to sharing my work with my classmates.
Unfortunately, I had to graduate and get a job. Oddly enough teaching high school English damned near killed my writing. For whatever reason - panic, stupidity, sheer survival - I forgot all the things they taught me. Instead of encouraging voice and experimentation with style, I became a grammar and form nazi. I think this was because I could control and measure student writing this way, which gave me, as a new teacher, some measure of control (and control was something I desperately needed those first few years). I could correct their papers for spelling errors and sentence fragments. I could show them how they needed to place a thesis at the end of their first paragraph. I modeled each essay for my students. I began to write in the voiceless and unoriginal five paragraph thesis support form (and unfortunately my file cabinet here is full of a lot of five paragraph themes written by me for my students. What the hell was I thinking? Now I imagine those teachers who comprise my audience booing at me and throwing rotten fruit at such writing).
Finally, Dr. Christensen came to my rescue again when I took a year off for graduate school. I was fortunate enough to team teach two Methods classes with him. There I rediscovered my voice and style. I jettisoned that five paragraph thesis support crap forever. It was also at graduate schoo,l with Dr. Christensen as my audience, that my writing took off again. Thanks to those nine months of graduate school, I began really writing again. In that school year, I cranked out more writing than I had in all the years prior (thankfully that writing has pushed all those horrible five paragraph themes of mine to the very back of my filing cabinet).
Now a new member has been added, my fiancé. She is an English major who has an eye for detail and imagery that I can only marvel at. Though my defense committee for my thesis were quite glowing in their praise, the highest praise came from Kristie when she read my final draft. She would balk at this, but it’s true. And what was that praise? She giggled. I knew when I heard her chuckle - I was upstairs - that it was worthy. In fact, I had consdered cutting out the scene that she found so amusing. And had she not reacted as she did, I would have cut it out. Good thing I didn’t. My committe said that was one of the most effective scenes in my thesis.
Now in my classes instead of being the grammar nazi, I borrow from the key members of my audience. I try to use Mrs. Christianson’s encouragement, Dr. Drake’s refusal to accept work that is devoid of thought and voice, Dr. Bonner’s eye for wordiness and grammar, Dr. Christensen’s push toward experimentation and presentation, and Kristie’s eye for the humor and blithe that makes the best writing personal and meaningful.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Busy
What a day. Busy and wrenching.
A former student stopped in with some questions about his college class. He has the best professor out there and he’s worried about his first response paper. So I tried to calm his fears and offered to read his rough draft.
Then I had to write a letter of recommendation for a student. I had forgotten I’d said I would. But I got it done.
Later during my prep I read the focused free writes from my advanced writing class. They were to respond to my grade and comments on their essays. Boy was that interesting. Many were pissed. I bet 80% of the class have 4.0 GPAs. So when many got themes back with B and C grades, they were none too happy. It happened totally by accident, but I had stumbled upon a perfect way to teach, or at least illustrate, voice. Ironically, many of the essays scored lower because they were generic. There was no voice present. Or if there was one, it was artificial (you know, the “I’m going to write to impress the teacher” kind of voice that immediately turns all writing to horse shit). So when I handed the focused free writes back, on which I scrawled various comments, and I told them, “If you guys wrote with the same voice and passion in your essays that you did on this response, the whole lot of you would have earned As.” You should have seen their faces. It finally donned on them. One student, on whom I was particularly harsh, said, “Now I know how to make this essay better.” He had been stuck copy editing in hopes of improving his grade instead of truly revising. Lesson learned. For all of us.
Then for the rest of the block, I had short conferences with the writers. One girl was writing her newest essay on her grandfather’s death from cancer. This, of course, is something I know all too well. In her first draft she was doing too much telling. She was glossing over key details that would bring her essay to life. For example, she wrote about spending all of her free time with him in his final days. I told her to be more specific and show what they did. Then I talked a little bit about how I tried to do the same with Mom and now Dad. I looked over at her and the tears were rolling. I ignored them at first,but then after a few more instances I said, “If you keep that up, we’ll both be bawling. And then where would we be?”
After class a former student stopped in. I haven’t seen her in at least four years. She married another former student and they now have five kids. Her husband has written a novel and they want me to read it and respond. I told her that I don’t have enough time for that, but I’d read a couple chapters and give them some feedback.
Just got another email from a student wanting to interview me for a college essay. Wow. That’s a lot to be done. So why am I blogging? As one college said, “Your blog has got to be cathartic.” It is. And it keeps me sane.
A former student stopped in with some questions about his college class. He has the best professor out there and he’s worried about his first response paper. So I tried to calm his fears and offered to read his rough draft.
Then I had to write a letter of recommendation for a student. I had forgotten I’d said I would. But I got it done.
Later during my prep I read the focused free writes from my advanced writing class. They were to respond to my grade and comments on their essays. Boy was that interesting. Many were pissed. I bet 80% of the class have 4.0 GPAs. So when many got themes back with B and C grades, they were none too happy. It happened totally by accident, but I had stumbled upon a perfect way to teach, or at least illustrate, voice. Ironically, many of the essays scored lower because they were generic. There was no voice present. Or if there was one, it was artificial (you know, the “I’m going to write to impress the teacher” kind of voice that immediately turns all writing to horse shit). So when I handed the focused free writes back, on which I scrawled various comments, and I told them, “If you guys wrote with the same voice and passion in your essays that you did on this response, the whole lot of you would have earned As.” You should have seen their faces. It finally donned on them. One student, on whom I was particularly harsh, said, “Now I know how to make this essay better.” He had been stuck copy editing in hopes of improving his grade instead of truly revising. Lesson learned. For all of us.
Then for the rest of the block, I had short conferences with the writers. One girl was writing her newest essay on her grandfather’s death from cancer. This, of course, is something I know all too well. In her first draft she was doing too much telling. She was glossing over key details that would bring her essay to life. For example, she wrote about spending all of her free time with him in his final days. I told her to be more specific and show what they did. Then I talked a little bit about how I tried to do the same with Mom and now Dad. I looked over at her and the tears were rolling. I ignored them at first,but then after a few more instances I said, “If you keep that up, we’ll both be bawling. And then where would we be?”
After class a former student stopped in. I haven’t seen her in at least four years. She married another former student and they now have five kids. Her husband has written a novel and they want me to read it and respond. I told her that I don’t have enough time for that, but I’d read a couple chapters and give them some feedback.
Just got another email from a student wanting to interview me for a college essay. Wow. That’s a lot to be done. So why am I blogging? As one college said, “Your blog has got to be cathartic.” It is. And it keeps me sane.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Tuesday
Tuesday
I’m behind in my grading. Oh well. I got home from our game last night at 9:30 and didn’t really feel like grading a batch of essays. I’ll take care of them today. Sometime.
Yesterday morning a colleague stopped by to see how I handled getting all my grading done and my grades posted with coaching hogging so much of my time after school. I didn’t really have an answer for her. She was dealing with the same thing because she had just finished organizing home coming and the magnet arts trip and some other things. I didn’t know what to tell her. I just grade papers when I can (which makes me realize how much I hate that term ‘grade’ papers. I read essays and tell the writer what I really like about it. Then I tell them what they can do to improve it and make their personality more evident on the page. When I must, I use a rubric and attach a grade to the essay. But that always stinks.).
In Composition my kids are writing their rough drafts for theme #3 (epiphany/rite of passage). I still have to grade theme #2 (childhood narrative). One of my favorite quotes is from Flannery O’Conner - “Anyone who has survived childhood has enough material to write for the rest of his life.” So I use that to begin theme #2 (childhood narrative). Then I use an idea I found in a book by Bill Roorbach called “Writing Life Stories” (a book that I can’t recommend highly enough for Comp teachers. Lots of useful stuff.) in which students create a “childhood map.” I give them a piece of tag board and they draw their old neighborhoods or farms or apartment buildings or room. Roorbach used this with college students to get them to unlock childhood narratives. It works wonderfully. I always do a crappy map of my old neighborhood on the board for the kids and am always amazed at the old memories that will serve as the seeds for my narratives that come back to me. I always end up dredging up memories that I haven’t encountered in dozens of years. That alone is worth the price of the book. As kids are drawing their maps, I have them jot down a list of ten memories that they feel are rich enough to mine for narratives. Once they have ten memories down, I have them select one to develop into their essay for theme #2.
In College Comp my kids got their theme #1 back yesterday. I had to miss yesterday for our game, so I had my sub hand them out. Evil of me. Then I had them do a focused free write on what they thought of my evaluations of their grades. I CANNOT wait to read those. I was rather brutal on some of the themes. What helps me here is that I’ve had several of these students as sophomores in my Comp class. So I can tell who is being lazy and who has real issues. What also helps is that I had the students write three essays for theme #1. I read each and offered advice and suggestions for revisions. Then I had them choose one of those initial essays to revise and develop and then submit for theme #1. So I can tell who really revised and who just did spell check or - God help us - tacked on a conclusion. No five paragraph themes allowed here!
Today we begin theme #2 - a personal narrative. I guess that’s the general title of the theme. The first essay they are responding to is -- “Write an essay in which you show your best attribute, talent, or passion.” My hope here is to get them to focus. Most of these kids are beyond the normal crap like “My best attribute is being a friend” or “I am most passionate about football.” I’ve already hit them hard about showing rather than telling. My hope is they may have a generic topic like that in mind (read - thesis statement) but I am trying to challenge them to select one moment or image that best illustrates their attribute, talent, or passion. To help them with this, I’m going to show them last year’s yearbook. We’ll select a picture from one section. I’ll talk about how that is one moment frozen in time, a moment taken from millions of moments that make up a school year. But that moment is frozen in time for all to see and inspect. That moment also suggests so much more. If it’s a picture of our quarterback scoring a touchdown in the section championship game, then that picture serves to symbolize their success. It might symbolize all the hard work they put it. It might symbolize the culmination of a career. And it will symbolize different things to different people. I want them thinking like that while writing their essays. They have all that power at their disposal when selecting their moment in time to freeze and examine. Or at least that’s how I hope it goes. I have a couple of great essay examples to read and explore too.
Once that essay is completed, I want to have them write a couple more before selecting one to revise and submit for theme #2. All the essays will deal with passions, talents, and attributes. I just will have them shift angles on them. All of that reading will eventually get to me, but for now I think it helps them to be able to draw from a wealth of material for their final essays. I am toying with the idea of having them take all of their essays for theme #2 and combine them into a braided essay. I love braided essays and realized that I first wrote one when I was a senior in college, only I didn’t know what it was then. Since then, I’ve written them all the time and find them to get me much closer to the truth of my essays than that of a normal format. So I would love to try to show my College Comp kids how to do this - or at least offer it as an alternative. I know I have some who would do well with the new form. Others would be lost. I might have to put the idea on hold in the name of getting through the curriculum. Maybe semester I’ll be able to combine the braided essay with the curriculum a little bit better. We’ll see.
All of this thinking in my writing has gotten me pretty fired up for fourth block! Giddyup!
I’m behind in my grading. Oh well. I got home from our game last night at 9:30 and didn’t really feel like grading a batch of essays. I’ll take care of them today. Sometime.
Yesterday morning a colleague stopped by to see how I handled getting all my grading done and my grades posted with coaching hogging so much of my time after school. I didn’t really have an answer for her. She was dealing with the same thing because she had just finished organizing home coming and the magnet arts trip and some other things. I didn’t know what to tell her. I just grade papers when I can (which makes me realize how much I hate that term ‘grade’ papers. I read essays and tell the writer what I really like about it. Then I tell them what they can do to improve it and make their personality more evident on the page. When I must, I use a rubric and attach a grade to the essay. But that always stinks.).
In Composition my kids are writing their rough drafts for theme #3 (epiphany/rite of passage). I still have to grade theme #2 (childhood narrative). One of my favorite quotes is from Flannery O’Conner - “Anyone who has survived childhood has enough material to write for the rest of his life.” So I use that to begin theme #2 (childhood narrative). Then I use an idea I found in a book by Bill Roorbach called “Writing Life Stories” (a book that I can’t recommend highly enough for Comp teachers. Lots of useful stuff.) in which students create a “childhood map.” I give them a piece of tag board and they draw their old neighborhoods or farms or apartment buildings or room. Roorbach used this with college students to get them to unlock childhood narratives. It works wonderfully. I always do a crappy map of my old neighborhood on the board for the kids and am always amazed at the old memories that will serve as the seeds for my narratives that come back to me. I always end up dredging up memories that I haven’t encountered in dozens of years. That alone is worth the price of the book. As kids are drawing their maps, I have them jot down a list of ten memories that they feel are rich enough to mine for narratives. Once they have ten memories down, I have them select one to develop into their essay for theme #2.
In College Comp my kids got their theme #1 back yesterday. I had to miss yesterday for our game, so I had my sub hand them out. Evil of me. Then I had them do a focused free write on what they thought of my evaluations of their grades. I CANNOT wait to read those. I was rather brutal on some of the themes. What helps me here is that I’ve had several of these students as sophomores in my Comp class. So I can tell who is being lazy and who has real issues. What also helps is that I had the students write three essays for theme #1. I read each and offered advice and suggestions for revisions. Then I had them choose one of those initial essays to revise and develop and then submit for theme #1. So I can tell who really revised and who just did spell check or - God help us - tacked on a conclusion. No five paragraph themes allowed here!
Today we begin theme #2 - a personal narrative. I guess that’s the general title of the theme. The first essay they are responding to is -- “Write an essay in which you show your best attribute, talent, or passion.” My hope here is to get them to focus. Most of these kids are beyond the normal crap like “My best attribute is being a friend” or “I am most passionate about football.” I’ve already hit them hard about showing rather than telling. My hope is they may have a generic topic like that in mind (read - thesis statement) but I am trying to challenge them to select one moment or image that best illustrates their attribute, talent, or passion. To help them with this, I’m going to show them last year’s yearbook. We’ll select a picture from one section. I’ll talk about how that is one moment frozen in time, a moment taken from millions of moments that make up a school year. But that moment is frozen in time for all to see and inspect. That moment also suggests so much more. If it’s a picture of our quarterback scoring a touchdown in the section championship game, then that picture serves to symbolize their success. It might symbolize all the hard work they put it. It might symbolize the culmination of a career. And it will symbolize different things to different people. I want them thinking like that while writing their essays. They have all that power at their disposal when selecting their moment in time to freeze and examine. Or at least that’s how I hope it goes. I have a couple of great essay examples to read and explore too.
Once that essay is completed, I want to have them write a couple more before selecting one to revise and submit for theme #2. All the essays will deal with passions, talents, and attributes. I just will have them shift angles on them. All of that reading will eventually get to me, but for now I think it helps them to be able to draw from a wealth of material for their final essays. I am toying with the idea of having them take all of their essays for theme #2 and combine them into a braided essay. I love braided essays and realized that I first wrote one when I was a senior in college, only I didn’t know what it was then. Since then, I’ve written them all the time and find them to get me much closer to the truth of my essays than that of a normal format. So I would love to try to show my College Comp kids how to do this - or at least offer it as an alternative. I know I have some who would do well with the new form. Others would be lost. I might have to put the idea on hold in the name of getting through the curriculum. Maybe semester I’ll be able to combine the braided essay with the curriculum a little bit better. We’ll see.
All of this thinking in my writing has gotten me pretty fired up for fourth block! Giddyup!
Mom and Dad
Here are two poems I wrote about my mother and father. The first is one I wrote while at the Red River Valley Writers Project at UND. I was able to give it to Mom before she died that summer. I also read it at her funeral. Out of all the many things I'm thankful for, chief among them is her reading this and then telling me, as I left the room, "I love you." Those were the last words she ever said to me. She died the next night.
A child is a ball of clay -
blank, innocent, impressionable, lost.
The mother is the artist -
creating, molding, correcting, affecting.
Sometimes, as can happen, the creation defies the creator. The clay slips through the
fingers, droops back into nothingness, crumbles to bits and pieces.
But most times, the creation becomes an extension of the creator. The clay takes the
intended dimensions, bends at the proper angles, holds the desired forms.
As a ball of clay over the years,
My mother’s hands have shaped me . . .
bathing me in the cold white kitchen sink and rubbing away the dirt and kneading away the chill.
checking my damp forehead for fever in bed as I thought the overhead light was going to fall on me.
cradling a Snoopy book and sifting through the pages as I struggled to enunciate the words.
supporting me as I stumbled and jerked in the front yard as I sought to relearn how to walk after my fractured ankle.
praising me as she clapped and cheered at so many of my games, whether I ever saw the field or not.
healing as she picked shards of glass from my ear lobe and daubed blood from my scalp after my car accident.
inspiring me as she cradled the phone back home and told me “when life hands you lemons, make lemonade” when I was distraught about finding housing at BSU.
A creation scientist somewhere once wrote that when you look past our cells, atoms, and
DNA, you will find the fingerprints of God.
If you were to break me down memory by memory, emotion by emotion,
chromosome by chromosome, you would find the same - the fingerprints of my mother.
This is a poem I wrote about my father. In 1994 he had heart surgery. The nurse was teaching him how to check his pulse; however, he couldn't feel it. Turns out the nerves on the tips of his fingers were dead from working outside so many years. I thought that image was ironic and wrote the following poem.
Fingertips
Dad's pulse has disappeared.
Or so he concludes.
His workman fingers pick and pinch
the awkward area
beneath his wrist.
His weathered fingers are accustom to
picking rock, tossing bails, weilding wrenches,
cluthing lambs, brandishing hammers, driving a John Deere.
Still his worn fingers poke and prod
determined to either deduce
the hidden rhythm
or drub it out.
My fingers coddle and caress
and instantly discover the
determined beat
in its traditional place
just beneath the flesh.
But for Dad's workman fingers, his pulse has disappeared.
Defiantly, he declares it a mystery.
The doctor, though, decides it's a tactile irony:
his life beats against
dead fingertips.
A child is a ball of clay -
blank, innocent, impressionable, lost.
The mother is the artist -
creating, molding, correcting, affecting.
Sometimes, as can happen, the creation defies the creator. The clay slips through the
fingers, droops back into nothingness, crumbles to bits and pieces.
But most times, the creation becomes an extension of the creator. The clay takes the
intended dimensions, bends at the proper angles, holds the desired forms.
As a ball of clay over the years,
My mother’s hands have shaped me . . .
bathing me in the cold white kitchen sink and rubbing away the dirt and kneading away the chill.
checking my damp forehead for fever in bed as I thought the overhead light was going to fall on me.
cradling a Snoopy book and sifting through the pages as I struggled to enunciate the words.
supporting me as I stumbled and jerked in the front yard as I sought to relearn how to walk after my fractured ankle.
praising me as she clapped and cheered at so many of my games, whether I ever saw the field or not.
healing as she picked shards of glass from my ear lobe and daubed blood from my scalp after my car accident.
inspiring me as she cradled the phone back home and told me “when life hands you lemons, make lemonade” when I was distraught about finding housing at BSU.
A creation scientist somewhere once wrote that when you look past our cells, atoms, and
DNA, you will find the fingerprints of God.
If you were to break me down memory by memory, emotion by emotion,
chromosome by chromosome, you would find the same - the fingerprints of my mother.
This is a poem I wrote about my father. In 1994 he had heart surgery. The nurse was teaching him how to check his pulse; however, he couldn't feel it. Turns out the nerves on the tips of his fingers were dead from working outside so many years. I thought that image was ironic and wrote the following poem.
Fingertips
Dad's pulse has disappeared.
Or so he concludes.
His workman fingers pick and pinch
the awkward area
beneath his wrist.
His weathered fingers are accustom to
picking rock, tossing bails, weilding wrenches,
cluthing lambs, brandishing hammers, driving a John Deere.
Still his worn fingers poke and prod
determined to either deduce
the hidden rhythm
or drub it out.
My fingers coddle and caress
and instantly discover the
determined beat
in its traditional place
just beneath the flesh.
But for Dad's workman fingers, his pulse has disappeared.
Defiantly, he declares it a mystery.
The doctor, though, decides it's a tactile irony:
his life beats against
dead fingertips.
Monday, September 25, 2006
How Ironic . . .
Just got a message from one of our administrators - one of of 'creams of the crop' - advising us that we have to show a bus safety video -- the same ones all of our grandparents saw. Never mind the biker kids doing handstands outside our school's entrance. Never mind the kids who roam the hall day in and day out. Quote -- "I know it isn't the best video but the message is good for all of us to hear." But God forbid, we better watch that video. Oh well, I don't mind tie dye shirts and bell bottoms.
I swear I have to write some of these examples down for a sequal to "A Disgrace to the Profession"!
I swear I have to write some of these examples down for a sequal to "A Disgrace to the Profession"!
wit
There is a new family in my home town. They moved here from Chicago. The family is comprised of a single mom and several children, one of whom is in the same class as my fiancé’s daughter.
Talk about culture shock. While playing some type of game - Nine Squares, I believe - Korii told me that they informed the new girl that she was tagged out. When she refused to leave the game, Korii told her that she was out and had to wait until this game was finished. Then she could start over with them.
The new girl, maybe trying to assert herself or maybe just because she is ignorant, told Korii, “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you” until the new girl was in Korii’s face.
Korii replied, “Okay, I get it.”
Then the new girl asked, “Do you want to take this outside?”
Korii, with a gift for thinking on her feet that I could never reach, replied calmly, “Reality check. We ARE outside!”
The new girl was so flustered she just walked away.
Talk about culture shock. While playing some type of game - Nine Squares, I believe - Korii told me that they informed the new girl that she was tagged out. When she refused to leave the game, Korii told her that she was out and had to wait until this game was finished. Then she could start over with them.
The new girl, maybe trying to assert herself or maybe just because she is ignorant, told Korii, “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you” until the new girl was in Korii’s face.
Korii replied, “Okay, I get it.”
Then the new girl asked, “Do you want to take this outside?”
Korii, with a gift for thinking on her feet that I could never reach, replied calmly, “Reality check. We ARE outside!”
The new girl was so flustered she just walked away.
Adminstrators and such
Saturday. 7:05 and I’m grading papers. (Actually, I’m typing this entry. I needed to take a break from the essays). What a life. No it’s not all work and no play. It’s just I’d rather get them out of the way now (I don’t mean it to sound so harsh - I’m actually enjoying reading the essays) rather than devote a majority of my Sunday to them.
It’s the end of the third week and I’m only grading the first theme of my advanced writing class. According to the syllabus their second theme should be due on Tuesday. So I guess I’m not so far behind. But I knew this would happen. I never quite accomplish all that I plan, though I’m trying to stick to the syllabus as much as possible. But each class has a way of coming alive and going their own way. So I tend to let them rather than strangle that life out of them to keep to the syllabus. Perhaps this is why I loathe curriculum mapping and crap like that.
******
Last week I shared my latest idea for an essay with my advanced comp class. My mother died from lung cancer some time ago. I’ve been writing about it off and on ever since. But this idea hit me hard on the way back from the cities not too long ago. I told my class that every once in awhile - maybe once a month - I’ll see someone who for an instance reminds me of my mother. One of the first instances was in a Culver’s in Rogers, MN. I was waiting for our order when I turned around to see a husband and wife walk in. They held the door open for an older lady, I presume their mother or mother in law, who came in with a typical grandmother sweater (stitched to the front were kittens playing with yarn). She shuffled in carrying an oxygen tank. Her hair was shaved and pale gray - just like mom’s had been. The tubes ran from behind her ears, encircled her face, before snaking into her nostrils - just as mom’s had. When I finally got our order and I passed them, I heard the hiss and clank of the oxygen tank as it hissed oxygen into her lungs every few moments - just as mom’s had. And for just a split second, I felt like she was indeed Mom. Part of it was her appearance. Part of it was the sound. Part of it was me. But all those things met in the line at Culvers and for a split second they fooled my brain into believing Mom was still alive. Even though that moment was infinitesimally brief, I felt its authenticity resonate in my very bones. It was like I had Mom with me again.
This has happened a few times since then. Last week at one of my football games, a horn blared after we scored. Even though I’m not a varsity coach, Mom loved football and went to all our games, regardless of how far they were. One thing she loved to do was honk the horn whenever we scored. So on that cold wet day when I heard that horn, I felt that sensation of Mom again resonate through me.
So what to make of this, I asked my advanced writing class. They weren’t sure. I guess that what the writing is for.
But now I have a new direction to go with the essay. Or maybe I have another essay brewing entirely. For this morning I was having breakfast at a local cafe with my fiancé and her daughter. In walked a man whom I used to work with as part of my summer job. He was kind and funny. However, his wife was a complete bitch. She was rude and vicious whenever I had to ask her for something. As the man sat down, his wife hobbled in and plopped down on the seat next to him, looking as pittbullish as always. Then this thought hit me like a ball pin hammer, “Why is this bitch alive while Mom is dead?” The brutality of that thought shocked me. But to be honest it isn’t the first time that such a thought crossed my mine. Three or four years ago the father of a friend had a massive stroke. He was a great man, but the stroke left him just a teetering, mumbling fraction of that man. One day I was taking the recycling to the bins when I saw him stumbling out in his yard. Then the thought struck me, “Why does he get to live out the rest of his days like that when Mom was seemingly healthy one day and gone 16 months later, gone from me way too young and way too soon.” That was the first time I’d ever had a thought like that.
That confession leads me to this -- sometimes too, though it makes me feel wicked to admit it, when I hear that a friend or colleague has a mom or dad who is ill, I have this thought strike, “Now they’ll know how it feels.” That thought terrifies me. Will I really feel better knowing that I’m not alone in my grief? Will I really feel better knowing that I’m not the only one I know my age who has lost their mother? And I don’t believe that. I don’t believe I really think that. I don’t even think that thought originates in my brain. It has to come from somewhere else. Somewhere wrong. Somewhere evil. But that thought has hit me more than once. And I’m ashamed of it. Maybe admitting that will help me get it out and get rid of it.
So those are the thoughts and images swirling in my mind as I begin to put together an essay to help me see what I think of all of that.
It’s the end of the third week and I’m only grading the first theme of my advanced writing class. According to the syllabus their second theme should be due on Tuesday. So I guess I’m not so far behind. But I knew this would happen. I never quite accomplish all that I plan, though I’m trying to stick to the syllabus as much as possible. But each class has a way of coming alive and going their own way. So I tend to let them rather than strangle that life out of them to keep to the syllabus. Perhaps this is why I loathe curriculum mapping and crap like that.
******
Last week I shared my latest idea for an essay with my advanced comp class. My mother died from lung cancer some time ago. I’ve been writing about it off and on ever since. But this idea hit me hard on the way back from the cities not too long ago. I told my class that every once in awhile - maybe once a month - I’ll see someone who for an instance reminds me of my mother. One of the first instances was in a Culver’s in Rogers, MN. I was waiting for our order when I turned around to see a husband and wife walk in. They held the door open for an older lady, I presume their mother or mother in law, who came in with a typical grandmother sweater (stitched to the front were kittens playing with yarn). She shuffled in carrying an oxygen tank. Her hair was shaved and pale gray - just like mom’s had been. The tubes ran from behind her ears, encircled her face, before snaking into her nostrils - just as mom’s had. When I finally got our order and I passed them, I heard the hiss and clank of the oxygen tank as it hissed oxygen into her lungs every few moments - just as mom’s had. And for just a split second, I felt like she was indeed Mom. Part of it was her appearance. Part of it was the sound. Part of it was me. But all those things met in the line at Culvers and for a split second they fooled my brain into believing Mom was still alive. Even though that moment was infinitesimally brief, I felt its authenticity resonate in my very bones. It was like I had Mom with me again.
This has happened a few times since then. Last week at one of my football games, a horn blared after we scored. Even though I’m not a varsity coach, Mom loved football and went to all our games, regardless of how far they were. One thing she loved to do was honk the horn whenever we scored. So on that cold wet day when I heard that horn, I felt that sensation of Mom again resonate through me.
So what to make of this, I asked my advanced writing class. They weren’t sure. I guess that what the writing is for.
But now I have a new direction to go with the essay. Or maybe I have another essay brewing entirely. For this morning I was having breakfast at a local cafe with my fiancé and her daughter. In walked a man whom I used to work with as part of my summer job. He was kind and funny. However, his wife was a complete bitch. She was rude and vicious whenever I had to ask her for something. As the man sat down, his wife hobbled in and plopped down on the seat next to him, looking as pittbullish as always. Then this thought hit me like a ball pin hammer, “Why is this bitch alive while Mom is dead?” The brutality of that thought shocked me. But to be honest it isn’t the first time that such a thought crossed my mine. Three or four years ago the father of a friend had a massive stroke. He was a great man, but the stroke left him just a teetering, mumbling fraction of that man. One day I was taking the recycling to the bins when I saw him stumbling out in his yard. Then the thought struck me, “Why does he get to live out the rest of his days like that when Mom was seemingly healthy one day and gone 16 months later, gone from me way too young and way too soon.” That was the first time I’d ever had a thought like that.
That confession leads me to this -- sometimes too, though it makes me feel wicked to admit it, when I hear that a friend or colleague has a mom or dad who is ill, I have this thought strike, “Now they’ll know how it feels.” That thought terrifies me. Will I really feel better knowing that I’m not alone in my grief? Will I really feel better knowing that I’m not the only one I know my age who has lost their mother? And I don’t believe that. I don’t believe I really think that. I don’t even think that thought originates in my brain. It has to come from somewhere else. Somewhere wrong. Somewhere evil. But that thought has hit me more than once. And I’m ashamed of it. Maybe admitting that will help me get it out and get rid of it.
So those are the thoughts and images swirling in my mind as I begin to put together an essay to help me see what I think of all of that.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Mornings
I'm a living version of the stereotype of the absent minded professor. Only I'm not a professor. But my mind is absent. Instead of focusing on the moment, my mind is off thinking about school and lessons and rehashing yesterday. For example - this morning I trekked down to the basement to take a shower. Of course prior to this I feed our cat and let our dog out of her kennel and feed her too. (instead of focusing on this, I'm thinking of a confrontation I had with a student) So I head down to the shower having fed our cat. I let our dog out and realize I forgot to grab her food, which is under our kitchen sink. (I was thinking about theme #2 for my advanced comp class) Back up stairs to get it and go down stairs. Only I realize I've forgotten a spoon. (I was thinking about what to write on my blog - ironic) Finally, I get the cat and dog fed. Then I shower. Fortunately, I'm lucky this time and remembered to grab a towel. However, I forgot to bring my clothes down to iron. (I was thinking about all the crap going on for homecoming) So back upstairs. Grab my shirt and slacks and head down to iron them. Back upstairs to get ready. Then I realize I've forgotten my belt downstairs where I got undressed last night. (I was thinking about our game last night and the big varsity game tonight). So it's back upstairs. Finally, I say my goodbyes and head out the door. Only to realize I've forgotten my keys (I was thinking again about what I'm going to do with my advanced comp class). So it's back in the house to get the keys. Finally, the absent minded teacher is off.
End of Homecoming
This nutty week is finally coming to an end. It's Friday of homecoming week. On Monday we had coronation at 2. Now we have a pep fest at 2. In between we had NWEA testing for the whole damn student body. We had an evacuation and lock down drills (in the same afternoon). Now this Friday morning I have several students coming up to me asking to get out of class for their class dances that they're going to do during the pep fest. I shouldn't have let them miss, but I'm too much of a wuss. At least they came in to tell me. What I don't get is why they need to miss class for these dance rehearsals (God knows they missed enough class time this week for other homecoming related activities).
I mean God forbid these kids have to get up extra early to rehearse before school. God forbid they have to miss practice after school. Lord only knows how far sports will get them in their lives. Who cares about being in class and learning how to write. Yet, oddly enough, what did they just tell us last week at our common prep meeting - work on those skills to get the test scores up. But I guess we have to work on shaking our booties around here instead.
Now I'm not anti-homecoming. I had a blast at coronation. But I'm anti-missing class time for crap that could be taken care of outside of class. And of course most of the kids involved in the dance are also involved in sports, so they miss even more time.
It's the same double standard that exists all the time during the year. Keep those test scores up, but let's let the hockey team out to practice during playoffs. Provide students with the skills they'll need to compete in the job force, but don't get in the way of rehearsals or extra curricular commitments. Sour grapes I guess.
But I am still looking forward to the pep fest and big game. I'm not against outside activities. After all, I'm a coach.
I just think it should be extra. In my classes I've instituted a new policy - one I got from my uncle, a retired English professor from Colorado. Students get three excused absences - no questions asked. Once they miss their fourth class period (regardless of the excuse - choir trip, football trip, FFA trip, tanning session, Granny's sick, WHATEVER), not only do they have to make up whatever they missed, but they also have to write an essay of at least B quality in order to get credit for what they missed. Of course, my athletes complained right away about this. I simply told them, "As an athlete, I expect MORE out of you. Not less. You've decided to be part of something extra. So you have to do extra." I'm sick of us, not just as a school, but also as a culture, of expecting less from those involved in activities.
I mean God forbid these kids have to get up extra early to rehearse before school. God forbid they have to miss practice after school. Lord only knows how far sports will get them in their lives. Who cares about being in class and learning how to write. Yet, oddly enough, what did they just tell us last week at our common prep meeting - work on those skills to get the test scores up. But I guess we have to work on shaking our booties around here instead.
Now I'm not anti-homecoming. I had a blast at coronation. But I'm anti-missing class time for crap that could be taken care of outside of class. And of course most of the kids involved in the dance are also involved in sports, so they miss even more time.
It's the same double standard that exists all the time during the year. Keep those test scores up, but let's let the hockey team out to practice during playoffs. Provide students with the skills they'll need to compete in the job force, but don't get in the way of rehearsals or extra curricular commitments. Sour grapes I guess.
But I am still looking forward to the pep fest and big game. I'm not against outside activities. After all, I'm a coach.
I just think it should be extra. In my classes I've instituted a new policy - one I got from my uncle, a retired English professor from Colorado. Students get three excused absences - no questions asked. Once they miss their fourth class period (regardless of the excuse - choir trip, football trip, FFA trip, tanning session, Granny's sick, WHATEVER), not only do they have to make up whatever they missed, but they also have to write an essay of at least B quality in order to get credit for what they missed. Of course, my athletes complained right away about this. I simply told them, "As an athlete, I expect MORE out of you. Not less. You've decided to be part of something extra. So you have to do extra." I'm sick of us, not just as a school, but also as a culture, of expecting less from those involved in activities.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Thursday
I am having my Comp class (sophomores) write about an epiphany. We discussed Helen Keller's breakthrough with her recognition of what 'water' was. Then we talked about epiphanies we all experience. In goading them into brainstorming some topics, I was telling the class, "We all have gone through this one. It has to do with school . . ." I was hoping for some suggestions like learning how to read, tie shoes, write, and so on. Then one kid says "When we realize school sucks." So I went with this. That might be an epiphany for him. But all he could must was "It just sucks." Then the red climbed to his cheeks and he seemed to sense that very few in the class shared his sarcasm and that he couldn't reinforce his epiphany with facts. It was a good epiphany for me. Not all kids think school sucks.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Interview
A student who is taking Comp out at the college just came in. She has to interview someone for an essay, and wisely she chose me! I can either talk about my profession, my goals, or someone who had an influence on me. I think I'll choose the latter. I actually have written an essay about it. I used to use it with my comp students for their epiphany essays. I'll post it here.
After the student left, I was so fired up for the interview that I began digging around for the essay. I realized that I have written so much in the past decade that I cannot easily find my own work anymore. I searched my folders on my laptop, but I couldn't remember the title, so doing a quick find didn't net any results. My next step was to pry open my filing cabinet and dig through the folders there (something I try not to do if possible). That finally led me to the essay.
Then I began working on an assignment for my College Comp class. Unfortunately, by the time I looked at the clock, my common prep meeting was long over. I'm a horrible teacher. But it's the first I've missed this year (don't remind me that the year is only three weeks old!)
Here is the essay --
Inspiration
"Where do you see yourself in ten years?" This is a writing prompt I annually give my tenth grade English students. Of course, their answers vary considerably. Some will be famous singers, actresses and actors, athletes, and politicians. Or so they desire. Others will be married, running businesses, traveling the world, and living out their dreams. Or so they hope. We never talk about those who will be divorced, incarcerated, working dead end factory jobs, raising four kids by the age of 22, and working for cash to get out of paying child support. Or so they think "that will never happen to me.”
But my students responses to "Where do you see yourself in ten years?" caused me to reflect and see just how close I came to falling into the category of "that will never happen to me." It caused me to pinpoint the pivotal moment in my live.
Beginning high school, I too had gigantic dreams. If I couldn't be a rock star, I wanted to be a NFL linebacker. Unfortunately, I could neither sing nor play an instrument. As for being a football star, a 5'10'' 180 pound frame squashed my hopes. I would probably drive truck and farm like my father or work at the beet plant like my brother. But then something happened.
It was the fourth week of my freshman year in high school. We had a new English teacher added to the faculty that year, Amy Christianson. She had sandy blonde hair, an armada of cardigan sweaters and skirts, and a slender frame. Mrs. Christianson was also in her first or second year teaching, so she still had some blood pumping in her, unlike the older teachers I was used to who seemed to come out of moth balls or formaldehyde every September and return at the end of May.
Why do well in school? I thought. It was boring. I just need to get C's so I could play sports. After all, I didn't need to know the presidents, geometric formulas, and the periodic table to drive a truck, farm, or work at the beet plant .
While school was torture, there was one thing I enjoyed: books. Well, horror books.
In grade school I read the usual Hardy Boy's mysteries and a couple of Louis Lamour yarns, but nothing really grabbed my attention. Then I discovered Stephen King. His novels lead me to other writers like Anne Rice, Clive Barker, and Richard Matheson. Soon I was devouring more books than our small public library could order.
I practically slept through the first few weeks of Mrs. Christianson's English class. For it consisted of boring stuff like simple and compound sentences and verbs and pronouns. That all ended when we began a short story unit.
For whatever reason, Mrs. Christianson decided to start the unit with some gothic stories. I don't recall the specific author or story. All I recall is that we read aloud a story about a man who passed a man chiseling a grave stone. As our protagonist examined the grave stone, he noticed his name! The shop owner had our protagonist's birthday correct, but he also included the date of his death . . . which happened to be that day.
I was shocked. This sounded interesting. It wasn't about a boring minister and some weird black veil. Nor was it about some old man in a boat on the ocean. Mrs. Christianson had me hooked.
The next day she introduced us to Edgar Allen Poe. First she recounted his life. I was shocked again. The rock stars I read about had nothing on this guy's wild life. Next Mrs. Christianson read "The Cask of Amontillado." This time I didn't even think about doodling. For the first time in my life I sat riveted in a school desk, gripping the edges as she narrated Montresor's hatred for Fortunato and his wicked revenge. Then as soon as she translated that ironic last line, the bell rang. I was astounded, prying myself from my chair. I hadn't looked at the clock once.
Before we left, she gave us an assignment. "I want you to write a prelude to the story. What could Fortunato have done to Montresor to make him respond this way? Or is it all in Montresor's head?" she said. I remember the raised eyebrows and open mouths on my friends, who were bolting for the door, as they saw me stop, open my tablet, and begin scribbling down the assignment.
That night was the first since grade school that I actually did homework. Only it wasn't like homework at all. I sat at my desk rapidly writing my prelude until my hand ached and the Tonight Show was on.
The next day I proudly passed up my four-page (front and back) response. My prelude dwarfed the others in my row. My classmates turned their bewildered heads at me as they felt my paper in their hands.
Then Mrs. Christianson told the class, "I will grade these and read my three favorites on Friday."
I froze. What if she reads mine? What will my classmates think? Nah, she won't read it. What do I care if she reads it anyway? But secretly I desperately wanted her to read it and like it, but I never admitted that to myself.
Friday finally arrived. I was standing outside Mrs. Christianson's door waiting to get in. That was another first.
As everyone found their seats, Mrs. Christianson said that she enjoyed reading all the responses, and on each she commented on our strengths as writers. Usually whenever I got a paper back, my spelling errors were emblazoned in red ink. I had more than enough of those comments. I just wanted her to read the stories, especially mine.
She began the first one. Nope, not mine. So I examined my tablet, feigning disinterest while I secretly analyzed it and compared it to mine. Unoriginal, was my verdict. If she had chosen this one, there was no way she would like mine.
She began the second one. Strike two. Not mine. Oh well, I thought. At least I liked my story.
Finally, Mrs. Christianson lifted up the third paper. I looked down at my tablet, not wanting to look up and see if I could recognize the paper. Plus, no one would see my disappointment. Then she said, "And now I am going to read my personal favorite. This is incredibly original. It should be an example for all of your creative writing. This piece actually scared me since I was reading it late Wednesday night."
Then she read . . . my words.
I couldn’t believe it. I tried to act nonchalant, but I beamed. She reveled in my narrator's twisted logic and morbid sense of humor. She delighted in the gore and carnage I created.
When she finished, she walked over to me and set her personal favorite response on my desk. All of the blood in my entire body rocketed to my head. I felt like a thermometer in boiling water. My classmates were astounded. I had never done anything worthwhile in my classes before. Let alone anything worthy of praise. In her comments, which were scrawled all over my paper, she noted how I used great suspense to build up to the story's climax. It wouldn't be until later, much later, that I actually understood what those terms meant. But she liked it. She saw my potential and gave it the motivation it needed to flourish. I never thought about driving truck, farming, or working at the beet plant again.
After the student left, I was so fired up for the interview that I began digging around for the essay. I realized that I have written so much in the past decade that I cannot easily find my own work anymore. I searched my folders on my laptop, but I couldn't remember the title, so doing a quick find didn't net any results. My next step was to pry open my filing cabinet and dig through the folders there (something I try not to do if possible). That finally led me to the essay.
Then I began working on an assignment for my College Comp class. Unfortunately, by the time I looked at the clock, my common prep meeting was long over. I'm a horrible teacher. But it's the first I've missed this year (don't remind me that the year is only three weeks old!)
Here is the essay --
Inspiration
"Where do you see yourself in ten years?" This is a writing prompt I annually give my tenth grade English students. Of course, their answers vary considerably. Some will be famous singers, actresses and actors, athletes, and politicians. Or so they desire. Others will be married, running businesses, traveling the world, and living out their dreams. Or so they hope. We never talk about those who will be divorced, incarcerated, working dead end factory jobs, raising four kids by the age of 22, and working for cash to get out of paying child support. Or so they think "that will never happen to me.”
But my students responses to "Where do you see yourself in ten years?" caused me to reflect and see just how close I came to falling into the category of "that will never happen to me." It caused me to pinpoint the pivotal moment in my live.
Beginning high school, I too had gigantic dreams. If I couldn't be a rock star, I wanted to be a NFL linebacker. Unfortunately, I could neither sing nor play an instrument. As for being a football star, a 5'10'' 180 pound frame squashed my hopes. I would probably drive truck and farm like my father or work at the beet plant like my brother. But then something happened.
It was the fourth week of my freshman year in high school. We had a new English teacher added to the faculty that year, Amy Christianson. She had sandy blonde hair, an armada of cardigan sweaters and skirts, and a slender frame. Mrs. Christianson was also in her first or second year teaching, so she still had some blood pumping in her, unlike the older teachers I was used to who seemed to come out of moth balls or formaldehyde every September and return at the end of May.
Why do well in school? I thought. It was boring. I just need to get C's so I could play sports. After all, I didn't need to know the presidents, geometric formulas, and the periodic table to drive a truck, farm, or work at the beet plant .
While school was torture, there was one thing I enjoyed: books. Well, horror books.
In grade school I read the usual Hardy Boy's mysteries and a couple of Louis Lamour yarns, but nothing really grabbed my attention. Then I discovered Stephen King. His novels lead me to other writers like Anne Rice, Clive Barker, and Richard Matheson. Soon I was devouring more books than our small public library could order.
I practically slept through the first few weeks of Mrs. Christianson's English class. For it consisted of boring stuff like simple and compound sentences and verbs and pronouns. That all ended when we began a short story unit.
For whatever reason, Mrs. Christianson decided to start the unit with some gothic stories. I don't recall the specific author or story. All I recall is that we read aloud a story about a man who passed a man chiseling a grave stone. As our protagonist examined the grave stone, he noticed his name! The shop owner had our protagonist's birthday correct, but he also included the date of his death . . . which happened to be that day.
I was shocked. This sounded interesting. It wasn't about a boring minister and some weird black veil. Nor was it about some old man in a boat on the ocean. Mrs. Christianson had me hooked.
The next day she introduced us to Edgar Allen Poe. First she recounted his life. I was shocked again. The rock stars I read about had nothing on this guy's wild life. Next Mrs. Christianson read "The Cask of Amontillado." This time I didn't even think about doodling. For the first time in my life I sat riveted in a school desk, gripping the edges as she narrated Montresor's hatred for Fortunato and his wicked revenge. Then as soon as she translated that ironic last line, the bell rang. I was astounded, prying myself from my chair. I hadn't looked at the clock once.
Before we left, she gave us an assignment. "I want you to write a prelude to the story. What could Fortunato have done to Montresor to make him respond this way? Or is it all in Montresor's head?" she said. I remember the raised eyebrows and open mouths on my friends, who were bolting for the door, as they saw me stop, open my tablet, and begin scribbling down the assignment.
That night was the first since grade school that I actually did homework. Only it wasn't like homework at all. I sat at my desk rapidly writing my prelude until my hand ached and the Tonight Show was on.
The next day I proudly passed up my four-page (front and back) response. My prelude dwarfed the others in my row. My classmates turned their bewildered heads at me as they felt my paper in their hands.
Then Mrs. Christianson told the class, "I will grade these and read my three favorites on Friday."
I froze. What if she reads mine? What will my classmates think? Nah, she won't read it. What do I care if she reads it anyway? But secretly I desperately wanted her to read it and like it, but I never admitted that to myself.
Friday finally arrived. I was standing outside Mrs. Christianson's door waiting to get in. That was another first.
As everyone found their seats, Mrs. Christianson said that she enjoyed reading all the responses, and on each she commented on our strengths as writers. Usually whenever I got a paper back, my spelling errors were emblazoned in red ink. I had more than enough of those comments. I just wanted her to read the stories, especially mine.
She began the first one. Nope, not mine. So I examined my tablet, feigning disinterest while I secretly analyzed it and compared it to mine. Unoriginal, was my verdict. If she had chosen this one, there was no way she would like mine.
She began the second one. Strike two. Not mine. Oh well, I thought. At least I liked my story.
Finally, Mrs. Christianson lifted up the third paper. I looked down at my tablet, not wanting to look up and see if I could recognize the paper. Plus, no one would see my disappointment. Then she said, "And now I am going to read my personal favorite. This is incredibly original. It should be an example for all of your creative writing. This piece actually scared me since I was reading it late Wednesday night."
Then she read . . . my words.
I couldn’t believe it. I tried to act nonchalant, but I beamed. She reveled in my narrator's twisted logic and morbid sense of humor. She delighted in the gore and carnage I created.
When she finished, she walked over to me and set her personal favorite response on my desk. All of the blood in my entire body rocketed to my head. I felt like a thermometer in boiling water. My classmates were astounded. I had never done anything worthwhile in my classes before. Let alone anything worthy of praise. In her comments, which were scrawled all over my paper, she noted how I used great suspense to build up to the story's climax. It wouldn't be until later, much later, that I actually understood what those terms meant. But she liked it. She saw my potential and gave it the motivation it needed to flourish. I never thought about driving truck, farming, or working at the beet plant again.
Big Honor
My former advisor from BSU emailed me and said that he is nominating my thesis for the annual creative/scholarly award. He believes it has a chance at winning (of course, he mentioned that the last time he nominated a work, it didn't win. Ha). He hopes it has a chance a winning the award for the entire Midwest. Wow.
No matter what happens with it, writing it and defending it was reward enough.
No matter what happens with it, writing it and defending it was reward enough.
Mid week
It's hard to believe that we are already half way through the third week so far. I have been fortunate the past two nights - I haven't even brought my laptop home. I can't believe how unnatural that feels. But I leave it here so I won't be tempted to do work. At home I always spend a few minutes typing up new worksheets, jotting down notes for new types of themes, or just revising lesson plans (which is pointless because I rarely follow them anyway). And that reminds me. I need to update my lesson plans for this week. I'm a horrible teacher.
More NWEA testing scheduled for tomorrow. I actually heard kids talking about their scores yesterday. That never happened in the past. Our middle school does a good job (if you can say anything good about standardized testing) reinforcing the importance of testing. Initially when we began testing, the high school kids who weren't used to it blew it off and our scores were horrible. Thanks to NCLB that can't happen anymore. So now that we are getting the students who are used to testing (our elementary school is absolutely nuts about testing. I swear their whole curriculum is devoted to the tests. Not that they don't do other great things there - what they do with reading is absolutely phenomenal. But in my opinion, those ladies let testing drive their teaching too much), they take it more seriously. I still think some kids blow it off, but what can you do.
At our common prep meeting - a meeting run by some administrative appointed teaching gurus - one of the gurus from our department brought up an interesting point: How long can we continue to blame low test scores on kids not taking it seriously? When will we have to point the finger at ourselves and decide we need to teach better? I think that's a valid point. But I am wary of teachers who claim that they always know the best ways to teach. That seems to be the feeling that some staff get from our common prep meetings - where two gurus get up and share reading and thinking strategies to the group and then we are supposed to go back and inculcate those strategies into our curriculum and lessons. That in itself is good. However, the isn't always how it works. Some get hard feelings because they think the gurus are TELLING them how to teach (and sometimes they do). Some get hard feelings because our administrators ALWAYS appoint the same people as gurus. And of course another problem is that we get a half hour a week to digest these strategies and then apply to our lessons. In my opinion, that is not enough time. I wish we could take a week over the summer (with pay) and go through this training and then apply it to our curriculum over the summer. That is why the Red River Valley Writers Workshop at UND was so great for me. I am just too overwhelmed to add many new practices and ideas during the year. Not that I haven't found what the gurus have to say very interesting. I have used a lot of their strategies. But a lot of their ideas end up in the growing drawer in my desk next to the NWEA test results, the BST results, curriculum mapping info, and all the other well intended stuff that I rarely get to because I'm busy reading student papers, reading essays to use with students, and teaching. Again, I'm a horrible teacher.
What I would like to see done, but I'm not a guru, is that our administration or department or whomever, requires regular department meetings (and I know some who are reading this will cringe at such a suggestion). At these meetings I would like to see each English teacher bring in their best lesson plan or idea. Then they would explain or model it for us. No ROLE PLAYING. I was educated in the 1990s and thanks to the BSU education department, I loathe role playing like I loathe cancer, root canals, animal testing, and republicans. Now that is loathing!
I know members of my department do amazing things that they never share. Let me rephrase that, I know members of my department do amazing things that they don't feel comfortable sharing or that they don't think are amazing. I think meeting and seeing what we do with our classes would improve my teaching more than anything else. Maybe the members of my department who read this would agree? Maybe not. I just know we have talented people here who don't get the credit they deserve or who don't get appointed gurus because of external factors - ass kissing and so on.
More NWEA testing scheduled for tomorrow. I actually heard kids talking about their scores yesterday. That never happened in the past. Our middle school does a good job (if you can say anything good about standardized testing) reinforcing the importance of testing. Initially when we began testing, the high school kids who weren't used to it blew it off and our scores were horrible. Thanks to NCLB that can't happen anymore. So now that we are getting the students who are used to testing (our elementary school is absolutely nuts about testing. I swear their whole curriculum is devoted to the tests. Not that they don't do other great things there - what they do with reading is absolutely phenomenal. But in my opinion, those ladies let testing drive their teaching too much), they take it more seriously. I still think some kids blow it off, but what can you do.
At our common prep meeting - a meeting run by some administrative appointed teaching gurus - one of the gurus from our department brought up an interesting point: How long can we continue to blame low test scores on kids not taking it seriously? When will we have to point the finger at ourselves and decide we need to teach better? I think that's a valid point. But I am wary of teachers who claim that they always know the best ways to teach. That seems to be the feeling that some staff get from our common prep meetings - where two gurus get up and share reading and thinking strategies to the group and then we are supposed to go back and inculcate those strategies into our curriculum and lessons. That in itself is good. However, the isn't always how it works. Some get hard feelings because they think the gurus are TELLING them how to teach (and sometimes they do). Some get hard feelings because our administrators ALWAYS appoint the same people as gurus. And of course another problem is that we get a half hour a week to digest these strategies and then apply to our lessons. In my opinion, that is not enough time. I wish we could take a week over the summer (with pay) and go through this training and then apply it to our curriculum over the summer. That is why the Red River Valley Writers Workshop at UND was so great for me. I am just too overwhelmed to add many new practices and ideas during the year. Not that I haven't found what the gurus have to say very interesting. I have used a lot of their strategies. But a lot of their ideas end up in the growing drawer in my desk next to the NWEA test results, the BST results, curriculum mapping info, and all the other well intended stuff that I rarely get to because I'm busy reading student papers, reading essays to use with students, and teaching. Again, I'm a horrible teacher.
What I would like to see done, but I'm not a guru, is that our administration or department or whomever, requires regular department meetings (and I know some who are reading this will cringe at such a suggestion). At these meetings I would like to see each English teacher bring in their best lesson plan or idea. Then they would explain or model it for us. No ROLE PLAYING. I was educated in the 1990s and thanks to the BSU education department, I loathe role playing like I loathe cancer, root canals, animal testing, and republicans. Now that is loathing!
I know members of my department do amazing things that they never share. Let me rephrase that, I know members of my department do amazing things that they don't feel comfortable sharing or that they don't think are amazing. I think meeting and seeing what we do with our classes would improve my teaching more than anything else. Maybe the members of my department who read this would agree? Maybe not. I just know we have talented people here who don't get the credit they deserve or who don't get appointed gurus because of external factors - ass kissing and so on.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Homecoming
Homecoming. Testing. Evacuation drills. Pep Fests. Coronation. Take a look at all that we have going on here this week -
Monday (coronation)
Tuesday (NWEA testing for all sophomores)
Wednesday (lock down and evacuation drills)
Thursday (more testing for juniors)
Friday (pep fest)
And that is all 'outside' crap that has nothing to do with getting my kids to write.
So far my classes are going very well. My first hour comp class is quit and reserved - as most first blocks are. Their first essays are waiting for me to read and grade. My second block comp class is more outgoing and talkative. So we get less done than in first block. I've read and graded their themes. I had three really outstanding descriptive essays. I had several more run of the mill essays - stuff like "I am going to describe my favorite object . . . " Ugh. Or "My most prized possession is my cat . . ." Ugh squared. I tell them again and again if they do a good job describing and showing me their favorite objects, possessions, and so on, they won't actually have to tell me in a 'canned' first sentence what they are describing. My fourth block class is just bliss. Though I have some large shoes to fill - the previous teacher did an outstanding job. And I always find myself wondering, how did she teach this? how did she handle this? where would she be right now in this course? But I'll feel much better once our themes start rolling in. To get a feel for their writing, I've had them write three essays now. Once their third is done and read and returned. I'll have them choose one of the three to revise and submit as theme #1.
Monday (coronation)
Tuesday (NWEA testing for all sophomores)
Wednesday (lock down and evacuation drills)
Thursday (more testing for juniors)
Friday (pep fest)
And that is all 'outside' crap that has nothing to do with getting my kids to write.
So far my classes are going very well. My first hour comp class is quit and reserved - as most first blocks are. Their first essays are waiting for me to read and grade. My second block comp class is more outgoing and talkative. So we get less done than in first block. I've read and graded their themes. I had three really outstanding descriptive essays. I had several more run of the mill essays - stuff like "I am going to describe my favorite object . . . " Ugh. Or "My most prized possession is my cat . . ." Ugh squared. I tell them again and again if they do a good job describing and showing me their favorite objects, possessions, and so on, they won't actually have to tell me in a 'canned' first sentence what they are describing. My fourth block class is just bliss. Though I have some large shoes to fill - the previous teacher did an outstanding job. And I always find myself wondering, how did she teach this? how did she handle this? where would she be right now in this course? But I'll feel much better once our themes start rolling in. To get a feel for their writing, I've had them write three essays now. Once their third is done and read and returned. I'll have them choose one of the three to revise and submit as theme #1.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Small victory
Dealing with whiny adolescent girls stinks. That is by far the worst part of my job. They mope into the room, slink into their desks, and instantly begin complaining. If it’s not the weekend, it’s their boyfriend(s). If it’s not the journal topic, it’s the assignment. So by Thursday of each week, I’ve had it with their complaints.
I teach an advanced comp course. There is a particularly whinny student in it. S/he also complains about everything. Drives me nuts. On this particular day, s/he was in no mood to do anything, which makes me wonder why s/he would enroll in a college comp course anyway, but you can ask our counselors that one. I drew her/his ire immediately for -- imagine this -- having her/him do work. While they were defining some literary terms I had written up on the board, I was busy returning their essays and other work. S/he immediately began whining how I didn’t return one of her/his worksheets. I replied that s/he must have not turned it in -- that’s another of my pet peeves, kids who THINK they turned it in and blame me for it only to find it right in their notebooks -- and I never get an apology -- it’s like it’s my fault they didn’t turn it in. I checked my grade book and, sure enough, no score. So I reiterated that s/he must not have turned it in. S/he steadfastly said s/he did and was becoming snotty. Another student even vouched for her/him. So I knew it must have been turned it, yet I knew I didn't lose it. Just then I happened to look up at my bulletin board. I saw a worksheet up their with a giant question marked that I had scrawled in the upper right hand corner where a name should have been.
By now s/he has passed whining into full on obnoxious. So I calmly said, “Hey, Einstein,” nodding up at the bulletin board, “Is that your worksheet up there.”
Sure enough it was.
S/he glared and I gleamed.
I teach an advanced comp course. There is a particularly whinny student in it. S/he also complains about everything. Drives me nuts. On this particular day, s/he was in no mood to do anything, which makes me wonder why s/he would enroll in a college comp course anyway, but you can ask our counselors that one. I drew her/his ire immediately for -- imagine this -- having her/him do work. While they were defining some literary terms I had written up on the board, I was busy returning their essays and other work. S/he immediately began whining how I didn’t return one of her/his worksheets. I replied that s/he must have not turned it in -- that’s another of my pet peeves, kids who THINK they turned it in and blame me for it only to find it right in their notebooks -- and I never get an apology -- it’s like it’s my fault they didn’t turn it in. I checked my grade book and, sure enough, no score. So I reiterated that s/he must not have turned it in. S/he steadfastly said s/he did and was becoming snotty. Another student even vouched for her/him. So I knew it must have been turned it, yet I knew I didn't lose it. Just then I happened to look up at my bulletin board. I saw a worksheet up their with a giant question marked that I had scrawled in the upper right hand corner where a name should have been.
By now s/he has passed whining into full on obnoxious. So I calmly said, “Hey, Einstein,” nodding up at the bulletin board, “Is that your worksheet up there.”
Sure enough it was.
S/he glared and I gleamed.
Coming and Going
It's homecoming this week. Coronation is today. We are having a mock "American Idol" contest today. I get to play the role of Simon. I've been working up my insults all weekend.
Last night I was in Walmart with Kristie (my fiancé) and her daughter. I routinely run into several students there. Last night was no exception. I saw one student in particular who has had some difficulties throughout high school, who, if I'm not mistaken, just had a baby, saw me and waved enthusiastically. She was with another student, who I couldn't see since she was down the other lane. When we rounded the corner I could hear the one student say, "Mr. *&^%$ is here." To which her friend, also a former student of mine at the ALC (Area Learning Center), replied, "Asshole." I didn't get mad. That is how this girl operates, after all she was taking my classes at the ALC (often referred to some as "Assholes Last Chance"). I normally wouldn't mind this - it comes with the territory. But when you say it in front of one's fiancé and her 11 year old daughter, it makes for an awkward instant. I blew it off. Kristie was furious and drilled holes in the back of the girl's head. Even her friend stood aghast at what she said. And to prove that Karma is real, I happened to look down at the floor. There sat a cell phone. Kristie picked it up and called, "Girls, did you drop your cell phone?" Then the 'asshole' caller came to get it, obviously feeling uncomfortable, and grabbed it from Kristie, who said, "Maybe you should make sure you have your cell phone on you before calling someone an asshole." Of course, the other girl didn't even bother to say thanks or sorry or anything. No big deal. But for a split second I wanted to tell her what I really thought of her. But then I'd really be no better than she.
On the total opposite spectrum, last week I received an email from a former student who graduated last year and is enrolled at NDSU. He wanted me to read and revise his first college essay. He also warned me that I was the subject of this essay. How could I resist that? He had to write about an incident that had a profound impact on his life. He chose to write about a sci fi class he had with me as a junior. I have always like him and didn't think he ever struggled with reading. Apparently he did. I have my sci fi class do an I-Search paper on a science fiction writer and one of their works. The student drew a blank about what to do his on. So I suggested he do it on Lovecraft's "Shadow Over Innsmouth." We had read Lovecraft's "Herbert West: Re-animator" and though his style is dense, the kids loved it. So he brought it home and devoured it. That was the thing he needed. For he wrote how much he loved writing his research paper and fell in love with reading. It's easy to say that reading that essay, made my year. Along with the defense of my thesis last spring, it was easily the most rewarding academic and work experience I have ever had.
Those are what keep an asshole like me going!
Last night I was in Walmart with Kristie (my fiancé) and her daughter. I routinely run into several students there. Last night was no exception. I saw one student in particular who has had some difficulties throughout high school, who, if I'm not mistaken, just had a baby, saw me and waved enthusiastically. She was with another student, who I couldn't see since she was down the other lane. When we rounded the corner I could hear the one student say, "Mr. *&^%$ is here." To which her friend, also a former student of mine at the ALC (Area Learning Center), replied, "Asshole." I didn't get mad. That is how this girl operates, after all she was taking my classes at the ALC (often referred to some as "Assholes Last Chance"). I normally wouldn't mind this - it comes with the territory. But when you say it in front of one's fiancé and her 11 year old daughter, it makes for an awkward instant. I blew it off. Kristie was furious and drilled holes in the back of the girl's head. Even her friend stood aghast at what she said. And to prove that Karma is real, I happened to look down at the floor. There sat a cell phone. Kristie picked it up and called, "Girls, did you drop your cell phone?" Then the 'asshole' caller came to get it, obviously feeling uncomfortable, and grabbed it from Kristie, who said, "Maybe you should make sure you have your cell phone on you before calling someone an asshole." Of course, the other girl didn't even bother to say thanks or sorry or anything. No big deal. But for a split second I wanted to tell her what I really thought of her. But then I'd really be no better than she.
On the total opposite spectrum, last week I received an email from a former student who graduated last year and is enrolled at NDSU. He wanted me to read and revise his first college essay. He also warned me that I was the subject of this essay. How could I resist that? He had to write about an incident that had a profound impact on his life. He chose to write about a sci fi class he had with me as a junior. I have always like him and didn't think he ever struggled with reading. Apparently he did. I have my sci fi class do an I-Search paper on a science fiction writer and one of their works. The student drew a blank about what to do his on. So I suggested he do it on Lovecraft's "Shadow Over Innsmouth." We had read Lovecraft's "Herbert West: Re-animator" and though his style is dense, the kids loved it. So he brought it home and devoured it. That was the thing he needed. For he wrote how much he loved writing his research paper and fell in love with reading. It's easy to say that reading that essay, made my year. Along with the defense of my thesis last spring, it was easily the most rewarding academic and work experience I have ever had.
Those are what keep an asshole like me going!
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Winding Down
Just read this on one of my favorite blogs - countryscribe.com ----
“Education is wasted on the young.
So, I have become the type of teacher I would have hated as a student.”
Of course, that quote is taken out of context of the entire blog. But I find it interesting nonetheless. First, “Education is wasted on the young.” An interesting idea I never really thought about. countryscibe teaches at a college, so I imagine he sees a lot of education wasted on those who succumb to the parties or aren’t mature enough to get themselves to class and take those classes seriously. I guess, in a real way, education is wasted on the young. How does this apply to me at the high school level?
When I taught a class four years ago at the local community college, my best students were nontraditional nursing students: ladies in their late thirties and early forties who returned to school after divorces or tiring of their jobs and wanted to take control of their lives. Without exception, they wrote brilliantly and worked hard and rung me out for every bit of knowledge I could give them. If only the normal freshman would have done the same. They, however, repeatedly eyed the clock and chomped at the bit to be off to their lives.
Here at the high school level, education is wasted. I know a significant portion of our student population is here for their peers or that truancy laws demand they be here. But as far as being here to learn something. Well, I’m not going to lie to myself. They are here for the social activities, and let us not forget, sports and activities. I guess that’s the trick of public education: teaching the kids something in spite of all the other things they have going in their lives. I have one student in my advanced comp class. S/he baby-sits her siblings, works upwards of 20 hours a week, maintains an A average, and participates in swimming and softball. And I thought my life was packed. S/he’s only 16!
Yesterday, we had our annual briefing on state test scores. Our curriculum head, who has to have one of the most miserable jobs on the face of the earth, that guy from the Discovery Channel should do a piece on her as one of the dirtiest jobs in the world, handed us a folder with neatly color-coded handouts detailing what the tests mean and the test scores for all freshman and sophomores. Then she went over it in about 20 minutes. It was torture. God bless her, but it was brutal. Talk about information overload. I was lost after about 3 minutes. Rit scores. Mean. AYP. No Child Left Behind. It was overwhelming. I left with my head pounding. Now the folder sits in my drawer with all that other stuff. I know the results tell us a lot about our kids and their abilities, but I loathe it none the less.
I have another football game tonight. No in-house tonight for parents though. So I don’t expect a note on my door like last week. What a sham. It must have been a prank because one parent has emailed me yet with their complaints. I almost hope they will. I’d let them have it. Our head coach does such a masterful job of molding his players into responsible young men, that it’s a shame a parent questions my role as a coach. For instance, as part of our football program, the seniors meet once a week (before school I believe) to talk about leadership and becoming responsible citizens and what football can really teach them. When they have an away game, our head coach brings along cleaning supplies and the varsity cleans their locker room before they leave. At first kids groaned about it, but now it’s a tradition and they kids take pride in it. What lesson does that teach? Be responsible. Take pride in doing your best. And that’s just scratching the surface.
“Education is wasted on the young.
So, I have become the type of teacher I would have hated as a student.”
Of course, that quote is taken out of context of the entire blog. But I find it interesting nonetheless. First, “Education is wasted on the young.” An interesting idea I never really thought about. countryscibe teaches at a college, so I imagine he sees a lot of education wasted on those who succumb to the parties or aren’t mature enough to get themselves to class and take those classes seriously. I guess, in a real way, education is wasted on the young. How does this apply to me at the high school level?
When I taught a class four years ago at the local community college, my best students were nontraditional nursing students: ladies in their late thirties and early forties who returned to school after divorces or tiring of their jobs and wanted to take control of their lives. Without exception, they wrote brilliantly and worked hard and rung me out for every bit of knowledge I could give them. If only the normal freshman would have done the same. They, however, repeatedly eyed the clock and chomped at the bit to be off to their lives.
Here at the high school level, education is wasted. I know a significant portion of our student population is here for their peers or that truancy laws demand they be here. But as far as being here to learn something. Well, I’m not going to lie to myself. They are here for the social activities, and let us not forget, sports and activities. I guess that’s the trick of public education: teaching the kids something in spite of all the other things they have going in their lives. I have one student in my advanced comp class. S/he baby-sits her siblings, works upwards of 20 hours a week, maintains an A average, and participates in swimming and softball. And I thought my life was packed. S/he’s only 16!
Yesterday, we had our annual briefing on state test scores. Our curriculum head, who has to have one of the most miserable jobs on the face of the earth, that guy from the Discovery Channel should do a piece on her as one of the dirtiest jobs in the world, handed us a folder with neatly color-coded handouts detailing what the tests mean and the test scores for all freshman and sophomores. Then she went over it in about 20 minutes. It was torture. God bless her, but it was brutal. Talk about information overload. I was lost after about 3 minutes. Rit scores. Mean. AYP. No Child Left Behind. It was overwhelming. I left with my head pounding. Now the folder sits in my drawer with all that other stuff. I know the results tell us a lot about our kids and their abilities, but I loathe it none the less.
I have another football game tonight. No in-house tonight for parents though. So I don’t expect a note on my door like last week. What a sham. It must have been a prank because one parent has emailed me yet with their complaints. I almost hope they will. I’d let them have it. Our head coach does such a masterful job of molding his players into responsible young men, that it’s a shame a parent questions my role as a coach. For instance, as part of our football program, the seniors meet once a week (before school I believe) to talk about leadership and becoming responsible citizens and what football can really teach them. When they have an away game, our head coach brings along cleaning supplies and the varsity cleans their locker room before they leave. At first kids groaned about it, but now it’s a tradition and they kids take pride in it. What lesson does that teach? Be responsible. Take pride in doing your best. And that’s just scratching the surface.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Routine
My daily schedule --
5:50 alarm wakes me up.
6:10 shower
6:50 wake my fiancé up
7:00 finishing touches on my tie
7:10 out the door for the drive to work
7:35 stop at Pennington Main for coffee and gum
7:45 school
8:20-9:55 Composition
10:02-11:22 Composition
11:23-1:35 Lunch/Prep
1:41-3:01 College Composition
3:30-5:30 football practice
6:00 return home
6:30 dinner
7-10 family time/ read and grade papers/ watch TV/ relax.
11 - get ready to do it all over again.
This is how my life has been divided for much of the past three years. Some nights, like last night, I made it a point to not grade anything after seven. Other nights, I make it a point to bring nothing home - though that’s really hard to do. Ideas for lessons hit me at odd times. I was reading with my fiancé, Kristie, around 8 last night and an idea hit me for an essay for my college comp class.
One of the many joys of my life is my fiancees daughter, Koko. A former student of mine burned me seasons 1-6 of Seinfeld. My parents and I were huge Seinfeld fans. So now I have passed that love for Jerry, Kramer, George, and Elaine onto Koko. While I was waiting for some Khakis to dry last night, I found Seinfeld on TBS. I called to Koko who was up in her room (beautifully remodeled over the past two weeks, thanks to Kristie). The next hour was spent watching her giggle at George’s antics - he was guarding a suit that was about to go on sale for half price thanks to an unadvertised sale. Such are the true pleasures of my life.
Here’s a pleasure from the classroom. I have an autistic student in my composition class. He is bright and outspoken. I wish I had a full classroom of kids like him. He has a wonderful sense of humor too. Currently we are working on writing a descriptive essay. So to help them write more descriptively, I copied down some of their less than stellar attempts at describing a place or event onto my laptop. Then I got a computer projector from the library and put the essays up on the wall in my room.
We were going through one essay about deer hunting. Students were to shout out things that would make the easy more descriptive - colors, senses, details and so on. No one was mentioning the use of thoughts (something I try to get the students using in their writing right away). So we were at a point where the young hunter in the essay has the deer sighted and is ready to pull the trigger. I asked them, “What would the person be thinking?”
Silence.
“Oh come on. I have hunters in here. Don’t lie, you would be thinking something right now wouldn’t you. What would it be?”
Silence.
“Okay, this is what I’d be thinking if I was this person right now - “I am sorry that I am about to kill this poor innocent little Bambi just to prove my manhood.”
Well, that got a reaction from the hunter section in my room.
“So if you’re not thinking about how cruel and unnecessary hunting this poor innocent creatures really is, what are you thinking?”
Still silence.
“Great. Are you thinking, “Lord don’t let me miss?” Or are you thinking “I hope I don’t hit a cow” or are you thinking “I hope I don’t hit drunk uncle Eddie who is barely clinging to his tree stand across the way.”
When I typed that last thought out, my autistic student let out such a giggle I thought he was going to fall out of his desk.
That laugh will sustain me for at least a week. So far that laugh has been the highlight of my school year.
5:50 alarm wakes me up.
6:10 shower
6:50 wake my fiancé up
7:00 finishing touches on my tie
7:10 out the door for the drive to work
7:35 stop at Pennington Main for coffee and gum
7:45 school
8:20-9:55 Composition
10:02-11:22 Composition
11:23-1:35 Lunch/Prep
1:41-3:01 College Composition
3:30-5:30 football practice
6:00 return home
6:30 dinner
7-10 family time/ read and grade papers/ watch TV/ relax.
11 - get ready to do it all over again.
This is how my life has been divided for much of the past three years. Some nights, like last night, I made it a point to not grade anything after seven. Other nights, I make it a point to bring nothing home - though that’s really hard to do. Ideas for lessons hit me at odd times. I was reading with my fiancé, Kristie, around 8 last night and an idea hit me for an essay for my college comp class.
One of the many joys of my life is my fiancees daughter, Koko. A former student of mine burned me seasons 1-6 of Seinfeld. My parents and I were huge Seinfeld fans. So now I have passed that love for Jerry, Kramer, George, and Elaine onto Koko. While I was waiting for some Khakis to dry last night, I found Seinfeld on TBS. I called to Koko who was up in her room (beautifully remodeled over the past two weeks, thanks to Kristie). The next hour was spent watching her giggle at George’s antics - he was guarding a suit that was about to go on sale for half price thanks to an unadvertised sale. Such are the true pleasures of my life.
Here’s a pleasure from the classroom. I have an autistic student in my composition class. He is bright and outspoken. I wish I had a full classroom of kids like him. He has a wonderful sense of humor too. Currently we are working on writing a descriptive essay. So to help them write more descriptively, I copied down some of their less than stellar attempts at describing a place or event onto my laptop. Then I got a computer projector from the library and put the essays up on the wall in my room.
We were going through one essay about deer hunting. Students were to shout out things that would make the easy more descriptive - colors, senses, details and so on. No one was mentioning the use of thoughts (something I try to get the students using in their writing right away). So we were at a point where the young hunter in the essay has the deer sighted and is ready to pull the trigger. I asked them, “What would the person be thinking?”
Silence.
“Oh come on. I have hunters in here. Don’t lie, you would be thinking something right now wouldn’t you. What would it be?”
Silence.
“Okay, this is what I’d be thinking if I was this person right now - “I am sorry that I am about to kill this poor innocent little Bambi just to prove my manhood.”
Well, that got a reaction from the hunter section in my room.
“So if you’re not thinking about how cruel and unnecessary hunting this poor innocent creatures really is, what are you thinking?”
Still silence.
“Great. Are you thinking, “Lord don’t let me miss?” Or are you thinking “I hope I don’t hit a cow” or are you thinking “I hope I don’t hit drunk uncle Eddie who is barely clinging to his tree stand across the way.”
When I typed that last thought out, my autistic student let out such a giggle I thought he was going to fall out of his desk.
That laugh will sustain me for at least a week. So far that laugh has been the highlight of my school year.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
New developments
Last night the school board approved to help our large freshman numbers. We will either hire someone part time to teach a section of Comm 9 OR I'll teach a 'skinny' (since we're on block scheduling we have four 90 minute periods a day. Classes that used to last a semester under our old 'traditional' schedule were reduced to one quarter. A year long class was reduced to a semester. However, for some classes, like band and choir, this system is not ideal. So 'skinnies' were created. These are 45 minute or half block classes that run all year. So a 'skinny' will be a 45 minute class that runs all year). I may end up teaching a skinny for half my prep for first quarter. I guess essentially I'll have an overload. Or half an overload. I will get to teach lit, which I haven't done all year really, so that would be a nice addition.
I'm just surprised the school board did anything to help us out. Progress. Maybe.
I'm just surprised the school board did anything to help us out. Progress. Maybe.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Friday
“Coach *&^%%$ and I are unable to make open house tonight. We have an away football game.” That is the note I left on my door last night to explain to the three or four parents who attend our annual “Open House” why I was not in my room.
Scrawled this was “What do we pay you for! Are you a teacher or a coach! A parent”
Now I assumed it was a joke by a fellow teacher. I figure since I teach English they were trying to throw me off by inserting exclamation points instead of question marks. However, I talked to members of my department and the coaching staff and they all say they aren’t responsible. So it leads me to wonder if it is legit.
If it is legit, I would like to say this to the parent who was gutless enough to neither sign his/her name nor to email me with any more commentary - I thank you for being one of the few who actually attend the open house, but you pay me to be BOTH a teacher and a coach. You pay me A LOT more to be a teacher. But attending a game is something that is out of my control. I am a teacher FIRST. Always have been. But it is truly one of my joys to be able to coach and see the kids, maybe even one of your kids, outside of the classroom. Furthermore, please know how to correctly punctuate your messages when you leave them, especially when you leave them with an ENGLISH teacher. And please have the guts to sign your name instead of being a coward.
Scrawled this was “What do we pay you for! Are you a teacher or a coach! A parent”
Now I assumed it was a joke by a fellow teacher. I figure since I teach English they were trying to throw me off by inserting exclamation points instead of question marks. However, I talked to members of my department and the coaching staff and they all say they aren’t responsible. So it leads me to wonder if it is legit.
If it is legit, I would like to say this to the parent who was gutless enough to neither sign his/her name nor to email me with any more commentary - I thank you for being one of the few who actually attend the open house, but you pay me to be BOTH a teacher and a coach. You pay me A LOT more to be a teacher. But attending a game is something that is out of my control. I am a teacher FIRST. Always have been. But it is truly one of my joys to be able to coach and see the kids, maybe even one of your kids, outside of the classroom. Furthermore, please know how to correctly punctuate your messages when you leave them, especially when you leave them with an ENGLISH teacher. And please have the guts to sign your name instead of being a coward.
Friday
“Coach Loe and I are unable to make open house tonight. We are at a football game in Grand Forks.” That is the note I left on my door last night to explain to the three or four parents who attend our annual “Open House” why I was not in my room.
Scrawled this was “What do we pay you for! Are you a teacher or a coach! A parent”
Now I assumed it was a joke by a fellow teacher. I figure since I teach English they were trying to throw me off by inserting exclamation points instead of question marks. However, I talked to members of my department and the coaching staff and they all say they aren’t responsible. So it leads me to wonder if it is legit.
If it is legit, I would like to say this to the parent who was gutless enough to neither sign his/her name nor to email me with any more commentary - I thank you for being one of the few who actually attend the open house, but you pay me to be BOTH a teacher and a coach. You pay me A LOT more to be a teacher. But attending a game is something that is out of my control. I am a teacher FIRST. Always have been. But it is truly one of my joys to be able to coach and see the kids, maybe even one of your kids, outside of the classroom. Furthermore, please know how to correctly punctuate your messages when you leave them, especially when you leave them with an ENGLISH teacher. And please have the guts to sign your name instead of being a coward.
Scrawled this was “What do we pay you for! Are you a teacher or a coach! A parent”
Now I assumed it was a joke by a fellow teacher. I figure since I teach English they were trying to throw me off by inserting exclamation points instead of question marks. However, I talked to members of my department and the coaching staff and they all say they aren’t responsible. So it leads me to wonder if it is legit.
If it is legit, I would like to say this to the parent who was gutless enough to neither sign his/her name nor to email me with any more commentary - I thank you for being one of the few who actually attend the open house, but you pay me to be BOTH a teacher and a coach. You pay me A LOT more to be a teacher. But attending a game is something that is out of my control. I am a teacher FIRST. Always have been. But it is truly one of my joys to be able to coach and see the kids, maybe even one of your kids, outside of the classroom. Furthermore, please know how to correctly punctuate your messages when you leave them, especially when you leave them with an ENGLISH teacher. And please have the guts to sign your name instead of being a coward.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Third Day
My classes are incredible. I know it’s only the third day, but the students are eager and energized. My Comp I students, sophomores, are eager to begin really writing. I can’t wait to read their essays. My College Comp students, juniors and seniors, are bright and hard working. I am eager to see what their work leads to. The class is a traditional comp class with the curriculum approved by our local community college. So my hands are a bit tied about what to teach. I actually had the class kind of fall into my lap. One of my colleagues here actually designed the class, for she used to teach the college prep comp class here before the college in the classroom movement. However, she has her masters in education and I have mine in English. So late last year I was notified that I’d be teaching this class using her curriculum approved via NCTC.
As a way of talking about what makes writing good, I emailed several college contacts of mine to get their opinions on what they look for in good student writing. Their responses were quite interesting. One was interested in personality (that is the one I side with) and one was interested in clarity and perspective that is well supported and clear in purpose (which I agree with too, but nothing beats personality and voice in my book). I am going to see if anyone else responds. Then I’m going to share this with my class and see what they think. In the meantime I’ve charged them with bringing in an example of what the students consider ‘good’ writing. Should be interesting. I’ve no idea what I’ll get. Could be Kiss lyrics to a Bible verse. But we’ll see. To aid them in determining what is ‘good’ writing, I copied some ‘classic’ selections (“Out, out” by Robert Frost, the climax of Gary Paulson’s now ‘banned’ novel “Winterkill,” and the excerpt from “Macbeth” that Frost alludes to in the title of “Out, out.”). I used these selections because they are all tied together with allusions and tone. They also use such concepts as alliteration, consonance, personification, figurative language and so on. I hope by showing the students these pieces that they might be able to determine that such things as “The cheerleader was a real young bleeder” (taken from Aerosmith’s classic “Walk this Way”) IS NOT a ‘great’ piece of writing. But that’s Friday. I’ll let you know how it turns out.
Just saw a kid with a shirt that read - “Genius by birth; slacker by choice.” What scares me is that that is the attitude of some kids. They naturally think they’re entitled to something that they can squander. I’m not sure I think that’s so.
As a way of talking about what makes writing good, I emailed several college contacts of mine to get their opinions on what they look for in good student writing. Their responses were quite interesting. One was interested in personality (that is the one I side with) and one was interested in clarity and perspective that is well supported and clear in purpose (which I agree with too, but nothing beats personality and voice in my book). I am going to see if anyone else responds. Then I’m going to share this with my class and see what they think. In the meantime I’ve charged them with bringing in an example of what the students consider ‘good’ writing. Should be interesting. I’ve no idea what I’ll get. Could be Kiss lyrics to a Bible verse. But we’ll see. To aid them in determining what is ‘good’ writing, I copied some ‘classic’ selections (“Out, out” by Robert Frost, the climax of Gary Paulson’s now ‘banned’ novel “Winterkill,” and the excerpt from “Macbeth” that Frost alludes to in the title of “Out, out.”). I used these selections because they are all tied together with allusions and tone. They also use such concepts as alliteration, consonance, personification, figurative language and so on. I hope by showing the students these pieces that they might be able to determine that such things as “The cheerleader was a real young bleeder” (taken from Aerosmith’s classic “Walk this Way”) IS NOT a ‘great’ piece of writing. But that’s Friday. I’ll let you know how it turns out.
Just saw a kid with a shirt that read - “Genius by birth; slacker by choice.” What scares me is that that is the attitude of some kids. They naturally think they’re entitled to something that they can squander. I’m not sure I think that’s so.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Final Thoughts before First Day
I was up in my classroom last night until 10 or so. Not because I was feverishly putting together curriculum or sweating over content. Rather I was trying to get my room in order. It has been my experience that getting more room in order and organized is much harder than planning out my courses. The reason for this is simple - the students. It's really hard for me to complete lesson plans without my kids in mind. I think the best education is tailored to individual students. Kind of hard to do that when I have met all but one of my students so far.
This years speaker for our district wide inservice day was Mervlyn K. Kitashima. She presented "No More 'Children at Risk: Children at Promise.'" Despite my distaste for education 'experts,' I found her presentation quite interesting. She certainly knows what she is talking about. She grew up in a dysfunctional and poor family in Hawaii. Her father was a white military officer from New Jersey while her mother was Hawaiian. Her father was a rampant alcoholic who was quite intelligent but didn't know how to share his intelligence with his children. She recalls him sitting at their kitchen table with his books piled up around him and his glasses of alcohol piled up around his books. Because of her home life, school became her sanctuary where she knew she would at least have a safe place and a meal. However, she became a bully off the school grounds because she was constantly ridiculed for her 'mixed' race and appearance. The focus of her presentation was on not viewing kids as "at risk," but rather viewing all children "at promise."
While Kitashima was quite passionate and interesting, her presentation skills left some things lacking. For instance, she tried to qualify all of her statements with psychological and clinical jargon. She would say something like, "There are four reasons children should be classified as 'at risk.'" As she was chronicling those four reasons, she would branch off into narratives to illustrate her reasons. By the time she ended her narratives and got back to the points, I had forgotten what her original points were. She should have chucked the jargon and gone straight for the narratives. Here is one I'll never forget - when her father and mother were fighting, which was quite often, she would seek refuge at her grandmother's. Kitashima had long dark hair down to her waist. But since she was poor, she didn't bath regularly nor take much time for hygiene. She recalled her grandmother taking the time to heat water for her and scrub her good and clean. Then she would take her time untangling the massive knots she had in her long hair. The imagery she used was incredible. The final image Kitashima left us with - and the image that drove home the importance of dedication and compassion - was that of her waking up crying in the middle of the night. Her grandmother had a wooden leg, which she took off when she slept. Since her grandmother slept in a bedroom across the house from Kitashima's room, she recalled crying from her nightmare and seeing her grandmother dragging herself across the floor to comfort Kitashima. Now that is dedication - and an image and narrative that I won't ever forget. There is a lesson in that for my Comp students.
I'm always interested in how teachers behave themselves during these presentations. I think it's ironic how we often act when we are in the role of students. I was up in the balcony of our auditorium, surrounded by coaches (and I am one too). And there is not a worse audience for presentations than coaches. Now I have been guilty of drawing up plays while listening to a presenter. But we had one guy from our distract - I believe he teaches at the middle school - who chose to blather throughout most of the presentation. Now had a student blathered during one of his classes, he probably would have run the kid out. But the irony was lost on him.
This years speaker for our district wide inservice day was Mervlyn K. Kitashima. She presented "No More 'Children at Risk: Children at Promise.'" Despite my distaste for education 'experts,' I found her presentation quite interesting. She certainly knows what she is talking about. She grew up in a dysfunctional and poor family in Hawaii. Her father was a white military officer from New Jersey while her mother was Hawaiian. Her father was a rampant alcoholic who was quite intelligent but didn't know how to share his intelligence with his children. She recalls him sitting at their kitchen table with his books piled up around him and his glasses of alcohol piled up around his books. Because of her home life, school became her sanctuary where she knew she would at least have a safe place and a meal. However, she became a bully off the school grounds because she was constantly ridiculed for her 'mixed' race and appearance. The focus of her presentation was on not viewing kids as "at risk," but rather viewing all children "at promise."
While Kitashima was quite passionate and interesting, her presentation skills left some things lacking. For instance, she tried to qualify all of her statements with psychological and clinical jargon. She would say something like, "There are four reasons children should be classified as 'at risk.'" As she was chronicling those four reasons, she would branch off into narratives to illustrate her reasons. By the time she ended her narratives and got back to the points, I had forgotten what her original points were. She should have chucked the jargon and gone straight for the narratives. Here is one I'll never forget - when her father and mother were fighting, which was quite often, she would seek refuge at her grandmother's. Kitashima had long dark hair down to her waist. But since she was poor, she didn't bath regularly nor take much time for hygiene. She recalled her grandmother taking the time to heat water for her and scrub her good and clean. Then she would take her time untangling the massive knots she had in her long hair. The imagery she used was incredible. The final image Kitashima left us with - and the image that drove home the importance of dedication and compassion - was that of her waking up crying in the middle of the night. Her grandmother had a wooden leg, which she took off when she slept. Since her grandmother slept in a bedroom across the house from Kitashima's room, she recalled crying from her nightmare and seeing her grandmother dragging herself across the floor to comfort Kitashima. Now that is dedication - and an image and narrative that I won't ever forget. There is a lesson in that for my Comp students.
I'm always interested in how teachers behave themselves during these presentations. I think it's ironic how we often act when we are in the role of students. I was up in the balcony of our auditorium, surrounded by coaches (and I am one too). And there is not a worse audience for presentations than coaches. Now I have been guilty of drawing up plays while listening to a presenter. But we had one guy from our distract - I believe he teaches at the middle school - who chose to blather throughout most of the presentation. Now had a student blathered during one of his classes, he probably would have run the kid out. But the irony was lost on him.
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